She stayed the night, and because we both fell asleep so early we’re up before sunrise. We drink coffee on the porch of my apartment, both of us wrapped in an afghan. We’re very cliche.
It’s chilly, and I hold close to her. My right hand cups her left breast, and I can tell it’s begun to swell from the hormones. Not much, but enough it seems to satisfy her. She considered implants but decided she wanted whatever came to come from her. As much as was possible, anyway.
Eventually I have to get ready for work. She eases herself back into my bed, wincing as she sits, then carefully lying longways. After my shower I make a show of tucking her in, under layers of quilts and sheets. I kiss her nose, both of us laughing at the silly infantilizing. Then I kiss her lips, and she kisses me back, and my knuckles brush against her hair. Whatever she’s been using has made it light and feather-soft, a far cry from the chemically burned coarseness when she first bleached it.
I get dressed. We smile. We touch foreheads. We play a quick round of a private, childish game, where we bat our eyes and feel our lashes brushing against each other. We kiss each other again. I tell her I love her, then I go to work.
When she ordered her coffee she was in torn jeans and a man’s button-up. Her hair was still rust-red, and hung from her pork pie in curling tendrils. The button-up was halfway open, and she had a white men’s tank on underneath. While I rang her up I told her she had kind of an Arlo Guthrie vibe to her.
“I don’t know who that is,” she said. “I should look him up.”
“Well, yeah! You’re obligated now.”
“I’m obligated? You’re gonna hold me to this?”
“If I have to. Your coffee’s on the line.”
“If I don’t pass the Arlo Guthrie quiz next time I see you, I don’t get my coffee?”
“I’ll play hardball if I gotta.”
“Tough cookie,” she said, then walked with her friends to a little couch by the fire. I walked her coffee to her with my number and “Alice’s Restaurant” written on the sleeve.
“Hey man, how’s Emily doing?”
Scott and I are lugging carafes to the front counter. The coffee rush isn’t bad, as far as rushes go. Today it’s mostly lawyers and doctors, people who, regardless of gender, take their coffee quick and black. If we were packed with cheerleaders I’d probably have to shoot myself.
“She’s good, man. Recovering. Hospital kept her a week longer than they thought they’d have to. There was a lot of bruising from surgery.”
“Ugh. Brutal. Sorry to hear that.”
“She’s better now, though.” I take a customer’s order – black, no milk, no cream, no sugar – and I upsize it gratis because we haven’t had time to grab more small cups. “Docs say she needs to take it easy another week before she can do anything stressful.”
“Her job okay with all the time off?”
“She’s a student worker at her school. She’s off for the semester anyway.”
“How much is all this gonna cost?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, man. Insurance is handling most of that.” I grab two empty air pots and take them in back. “My guess is it woulda cost her a lot more without treatment, though.”
Pretty much all we did was hang out and listen to old music. Everyone claims to love folk but she was the first person I’d met who would actually sit and listen to it. We’d sit in the shop for hours after I clocked out, talking about songs she’d just discovered. On days when we were both free we’d park by the highway and listen to old Cajun songs.
I finally kissed her one rainy afternoon, sitting beside the highway. She was sitting in my lap, tracing her fingertips along the inside of my hand. My free hand had slipped into a rip at the knee of her jeans. I could feel the faint grain of stubble she’d missed when she shaved her legs. Something about that hit me as intensely intimate.
Without thinking, I put my lips to the side of her neck. She leaned into the kiss, and when my lips reached her ear, she put a hand beside my face, turned, and kissed me back.
When I get off work I pick up some ibuprofen for her. The doctors advised against any prescription strength stuff, considering her history. She’d been dealing with this for a while, long before she finally saw someone about it. Self-medication was the order of the day when she was in high school.
When I get home she’s tossed the blankets off. It was icy this morning but by now it’s risen over eighty degrees outside. The weather is such a fickle thing this far south.
She’s lying across the bed in the tank top and yoga pants she wears for pajamas. I can see a faint bulge from the pad of bandages between her legs. She’s tied her hair up. She’s reading the Bhagavad-Gita.
I put the ibuprofen beside her, and she smiles up at me. I bend down to kiss her. She reaches up and puts a hand behind my head, and inside I shiver at the feel of her nails against my neck. She traces her fingers down my arm. Her hands are almost as long as mine. Thinner, smoother, but nearly as long.
“You feelin’ okay today?” I ask her.
“Not too bad. I’ll need to head home in a few hours if I wanna bathe tonight.” She sits up, wincing a little at the effort. She needs a special bench to sit on for the time being whenever she wants to shower.
“You wanna eat before you go?”
“Oh, God yeah. The meds are making me feel queasy.”
I make some stir fry, and she eats the cubes of tofu separately before eating the veggies. When she’s dressed and ready to go, I help her down the stairs to my car and drive her to her parent’s place. It starts to rain before we get there, so we sit in the driveway for a spell, holding hands and leaning against each other.
Every few minutes, she lifts my hand to her mouth, and kisses each knuckle. I can’t tell which electrifies me more: the softness of her lips, or the little huff of breath that comes with every kiss.
The day I first kissed her had been cold, but somehow we’d worked up a sweat anyway. When we finally worked our way to the backseat, the windows were fogged, and her jacket was on the floorboard. She tossed her sweater over the back of the passenger seat. I pulled her shirt open, the snaps giving with little pops, and lifted her tank to below her arms, kissing my way from her navel to her flat chest.
In the front seat, she’d teased with small bites to the crotch of my jeans. I made shuddering moaning sounds each time I felt her nails to my stomach. She’d grinned up at me, amused, before undoing my belt buckle. Her hat had fallen away as I ran my fingers through her hair.
Now, in back, it was my turn to work her pants away. I was to eager to make a game of it, like she’d done. I just wanted to explore and see every part of her. Her jeans, always a little loose back then, slid away easily. I pulled her boxers down with my teeth.
She’d only recently started the hormones. Her cock was this delicate, quivering thing, smaller than usual but clearly still working. Her breath took on a hissing urgency as she grew against my touch.
I kissed my way down her flat chest to her hairless stomach. I could feel her muscles tightening as I ran my hands along her body. I made my way to the erect organ below her waist, this defining and alienating thing, and I kept kissing her. For hours, for days, for years.